Burnt Merlot


(I warned you)


Scrubbing the stain of last night’s spilt wine,

Foaming suds bristling and popping,

Unable to erase the burnt Merlot

Seeped deep into the fabric.

Such a simple mistake,

The wobbling of a glass when

Our parting fingers brushed

Against its stem.

And then a liquid cascade

Tumbling end over end,

Twisting river of red rushing

To the floor bracing below.

Perhaps if I had cleaned it last night

My hands would not be raw

And red, matching the stain

You left behind for me to clean.

MerlotSomething a bit different this week my friends.  I’m working on several long topics in my head but they’re all in swirling gestation at the moment.  I went back and dug up some poetry I wrote a lifetime and a half ago, back in my angsty youth when I still thought in poetry inside the nest of my head, from before I abandoned writing for “normal” life.  These days I tend to think more in pragmatic prose but I know there’s still a poet buried in there deep.  I do believe poetry is great exercise in crafting within given boundaries and really thinking about the conciseness and impact of the words themselves. So tonight I went back to some previous work to find a place to begin anew.  At the time I wrote this I was in a creative writing class and the constructive feedback I received was “sounds like a post-modern paper towel commercial”.   Do y’all think it sounds like Mr. Clean smokes a joint and joins a drum circle?

One thought on “Burnt Merlot

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